


In Between Places

by Rochelle_Templer



Category: The Monkees, The Monkees (TV)
Genre: Gen, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-12-16 19:27:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11835465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rochelle_Templer/pseuds/Rochelle_Templer
Summary: A lonely musician from Texas tries to scrape out a living in Malibu.





	In Between Places

**Author's Note:**

> This was original a prompt fic inspired by the Latin phrase "dum spiro spero" (while I breathe, I hope).
> 
> It takes place before Mike met the guys and makes references to the episode Monkees a la Carte.

Mike wished he could remember the last time he had eaten.

It wasn’t because the last meal he had had was anything important. It had probably been something simple like a piece of toast with jelly or a hot dog with a little mustard. Still, thinking about whatever he had eaten and what it must have tasted like would be a good way to distract himself from the hunger he felt now. It didn’t always work, but Mike was always willing to give it a try.

After another couple minutes of struggling to remember, Mike shrugged and slung his duffle bag farther up his shoulder. He needed to find a place to sleep tonight. He had managed to scrape together a little money from playing on street corners, but it wasn’t enough to pay for even one night at a motel. He knew there were a couple of alleyways that were generally safer to rest in, but Mike was always wary of any of them. Especially after one particularly bad night when someone tried to steal his guitar at knifepoint.

The Texan squinted as he studied the buildings around him. He supposed that he could try to get a job, but he doubted that he would get paid in time to solve his living situation tonight. He would have preferred to get a gig, but those were becoming harder and harder to come by.

His eyes eventually settled on a small Italian place on the corner of the street across from him. It didn’t look like much, but he hoped that it was a small, family-owned place. Those types of restaurants were usually more inclined to give a guy a break.

Mike shuffled over to the restaurant. He paused just outside the door to position his hat over his hair better and stand up straighter. He then slowly walked into the place.

There didn’t seem to be anyone around as he walked into the dining room. Just a few tables with red and white tablecloths on them with chairs circling them. He was about to call out when a man with grey hair appeared from the kitchen. The man was short and frail looking but had an energetic step.

“Hello there young man, hello,” he said. “Welcome to my restaurant. I am afraid we cannot serve you for another half hour. My chef, he’s out getting some things for the dinner service, but as soon as he is back we can….”

“Ah, thank you, but um,” Mike stuttered. “I was hoping that…well I was hoping that maybe I could…that maybe you had a job I could do. I can play the guitar for your customers.” He held his guitar up to show him. “Or, um, I could do other stuff. Wash dishes or….”

“Oh, I’m sorry, young man,” the man said with a shake of his head. “But I already have a boy that comes in to do the cleaning. And as for the playing, well, I promise my sister Theresa that her boy could have a gig here until he went back to school.”

“Oh,” Mike said, his head drooping. “I, I understand. I’ll just….”

“Wait a minute, now wait a minute,” the man said, grabbing his arm. “You look hungry. When was the last time you’d eaten, huh?”

Mike shook his head. He was more than willing to work for his supper, but he wasn’t sure how he felt about someone just giving him something for nothing.

“Ah, I see,” the man said with a sage nod. “Tell you what. I have a basement that needs so much cleaning. And Tony, he’s never going to get to it tonight. So I make a deal. You work on getting that basement straightened out and I give you some supper. That all right? Have you got a place to sleep?”

Mike blushed as he bowed his head. The man gave him a sympathetic look, but quickly turned it into a smile.

“I thought so,” he said. “Look, there is a cot down in the basement too. It’s not much. But while you work for me, it’ll be yours to use. You work hard for me and I let you stay here. Capiche?”

“Thank you,” Mike finally blurted out. “I’ll get right to work, Mr…Mr, ah….”

“Just call me Pop,” the man said. “Everyone else does. And what is your name, young man?”

“Mike,” the Texan replied. “Mike Nesmith.”

“Michael,” Pop replied. “Yes, I think we are going to get along just fine, Michael.”

* * *

 

Later that night, Mike curled up on the cot at the corner of the basement. He was exhausted from a long day of walking around and then cleaning. But he had managed to get most of the work done which had pleased Pop greatly. Thus, Mike had been rewarded with a huge plate of spaghetti, the most food he had had in weeks.

Suddenly, the furnace rattled, the sound echoing all around him. It was loud, but Mike figured he would eventually get used to it.

There was another loud clang from the walls which prompted Mike to mash his pillows against his ears. As noisy and musty as it was, it was still better than sleeping in the streets.

Things could still get better from here. Mike eventually fell asleep trying to convince himself of that.


End file.
